


Bloody Brushes

by jawbonesandjumpers



Series: My Masterpiece [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Art Critic!Sherlock, Artist AU, Artist!John, Gen, Kinda Sorta Johnlock, Love at First Sight, More Like Pre Johnlock, Sherlock is Secretly a Hopeless Romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 17:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2820194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawbonesandjumpers/pseuds/jawbonesandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a world-renowned art critic and collector who rarely finishes any of his own work. He is brutal and ends more artists’ careers than starts them, and he abhors the state of the art world today. John Watson is a recluse who was invalided out of the army and paints the horrifying scenes of his nightmares. When Sherlock stumbles across one of his works, he becomes obsessed with his paintings and wants nothing more than to meet the man behind the canvas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody Brushes

**Author's Note:**

> So... this is my very first fic! It's unbeta'd, so please feel free to point out any spelling errors or whatever.

The bullet burned as it tore through his shoulder. Dug through the front, clawed its way out the back. Gnashing with metal teeth through sinew and bone. Leaving his life bleeding out in the sand. The heat nearly boiling the blood. Evaporating into the desert sky, never to touch ground again. It oozed, bubbled, sputtered out, drowning him.

Great hands rose out of the earth, the susurrus of sand ringing in his ears as they coiled their spindly, rotting fingers around his arms, his legs, his neck. They squeezed tight and dragged him down into the earth.

He tried to open his eyes. He tried to breathe. He tried to scream. Nothing came out, only sand went in. Choking him, blinding him, filling all his emptiness.

 

A cry ripped from John’s lungs as he sat up in his bed. Shaking, sweating, sheets wrapped around him and restricting his legs. He sat there for a long time, sitting and staring at only darkness. He felt hysteria, tears bubble up and he shook them free, locked them away nice and tight. Once his tremors died down, he took a deep breath and crawled out of bed. He looked out the small window, saw only more darkness, and refused to look at the clock and see what ungodly hour it was. He stood there a while longer, clad only in his threadbare pajamas, staring out into the night and wondering what might be staring back.

When his feet began to ache, he grabbed the cane that was leaning against the wall and shuffled to the opposite side of the tiny, abysmal one room flat and sat down at his ‘studio.’ A tall easel, a chair, a blank canvas, a floor lamp, and an end table with paints and brushes spilling over were all that were there.

The fluorescent light clicked on in the dark room. Hummed quietly. Shined down on the masterpiece yet to come…

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

“Are you seriously suggesting this is art, or do you genuinely think I am an idiot?”

 

The young, boyish man and artist of the painting in question only managed to flounder. When it seemed no intelligent response was forthcoming, the critic in front of him sighed and rolled his eyes.

“This is, by far, one of the most spectacularly uninformed and horrendously lazy paintings of a bloody _automobile_ I have ever seen. You couldn’t even bother to find an actual automobile to base it off of, you just slapped some paint on a cheap canvas and called it a day. Honestly, a chimpanzee could have done a better job.” A quick once-over gave him all he needed, and he raised his eyebrows before adding with an air of finality, “You really should have pursued that business major, you might have had slightly more luck with that.” With a dramatic swirl of his Belstaff coat, world-renowned art critic and collector, and occasional artist himself, Sherlock Holmes was leaving the pathetic excuse of a gallery and entering the London streets once more.

 

Exactly ten minutes later, his friend – he used the term loosely – and personal assistant Gregory Lestrade phoned him. Sherlock sighed from inside his taxi and lifted the cell to his ear, barking out a quick, “I don’t care what that sorry sod’s manager expects, I’m not apologizing. Every word I said was completely valid and it’s better to tear a terrible artist down early than let him fall later on.”

He could practically hear the poor man rubbing his temples. In perhaps the most exasperated tone ever uttered by man, Greg ground out, “See, that’s what _you_ think, but the _rest_ of the art world thinks his paintings are already worth over a hundred thousand quid.”

A bolt of agony ripped straight through Sherlock’s heart, and he felt the urge to weep. “Oh God, what is this world coming to? I wouldn’t even use that canvas to mop up my floors. It’s obvious the only reason his paintings are worth that much is because his uncle owns that waste of a space he tries to pass off as a gallery.”

A matching exasperated sigh sounded on the other side of the call. “Dammit Sherlock, that was the opening night for that show…” He didn't even bother yelling, it wouldn’t do any good.

“Hopefully, it’s the closing as well,” was the only response Greg got before Sherlock hung up.

                                                        

~ - - - - ~

 

 

A knock on the door startled John out of his trance. He blinked, set the brush in his hand down, then creakily rose to his feet and limped his way to the front door. He opened it and smiled when Mike Stamford, long time friend – he didn’t use the term loosely – and manager greeted him.

“Mornin’, John!” Mike’s smile fell only slightly when he saw the state John was in. Eyes red and puffy, face and arms covered in paint smudges, old pajamas hanging on for dear life. He hadn’t seen John for two days… He knew better than to ask how long it had been since his friend slept, so he merely kept smiling and shuffled in around the nearly lifeless body in front of him.

“Uh, um… mornin’. Can I get you anythin’? Tea,” John attempted, his voice like gravel and his thoughts still sluggish.

Mike opened his mouth to say _No, sit down, John. Rest your feet, you look like death._ Of course, he didn’t get a chance to, since deeply ingrained manners had John already moving to the half kitchen to put on the kettle. So, he shut his mouth and looked at the back of John’s head with concern.

Like a magnetic pull, Mike’s gaze turned to the easel. What he saw made him gasp, and he wobbled up to it and grinned. “John, it’s stunning! When’d you start this? I swear, it’s your best one yet!”

“You say that about all my work,” John snickered.

“Yeah, well, you get better every time,” Mike said with an even wider grin, eyes never leaving the painting.

 

Every grain of sand. Every shade of blue in the desert sky. Every vein, every drop of blood spilling out from the soldier lying in the wasteland. His eyes shut but his mouth open, sand falling in as two enormous, terrifying hands dragged him under. Every last disturbing detail caught forever on the canvas.

 

Mike soaked it in, felt a shiver run down his spine. “I mean it, this is… it’s incredible. Is it finished?” He looked over at John to see the man shaking his head. “What do you have left? It’s perfect!”

The kettle whistled and John shakily poured two cups of tea, gripping his cane tightly. _Steady now, no tremors in front of Mike_. “I still gotta finish the hands. And the sand isn’t even close,” the artist said quietly, setting the kettle down.

Mike walked over and gratefully took his mug, then leaned against the small counter and watched as John slowly came back to this world. Amazing what painting did to the man, might as well send him to another universe. Once life was back in his eyes, Mike smiled and said, “I’ve got great news!”

That made John look up. “What? Did the gallery say yes?”

“Yup,” Mike cheered, grinning more when a smile eclipsed John’s worn face, lit up those tired eyes. “But they still think you should raise the price,” he added with a thinly veiled nag. The constant argument between them. Damn the man and his humility, they could have made at least double what they had by now if he weren’t so bloody stubborn.

Naturally, John only shook his head and huffed when Mike sighed. Silence fell between them for a moment, both resigned to sipping their tea.

“When was the last time you ate?” Mike sighed again when John looked down at his feet. “You get back to painting, I’ll go get you some takeaway,” the man said before setting his mug down and heading out the front door.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

That wasn’t a good smell. Greg sniffed the air and hurried up the steps, opening the door to find…

           

Sherlock.

 

Sherlock lying on the sofa in his ‘prayer pose’ and a painting lit up in the middle of the room, the wood of the canvas frame crackling and paint melting onto the floor.

 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” was all Greg could say before he put his head in his hands and groaned. Poor Mrs. Hudson, the old woman would have a fit when she got back. He grabbed the fire extinguisher next to the front door and put out the blaze before it turned into an inferno. Not that Sherlock would let that happen. The smell was horrendous, and he rushed over to the opposite side of the room to throw open the windows.

“Bored!”

“That painting was turning out beautifully, you arse,” the older man bit out, wondering for the umpteenth time what on earth possessed him to work for the arse in question.

“Oh, don’t try to baby me. It was hideous, it looks so much better now.” Sherlock looked skyward when Greg began to bang his head on the windowpane repeatedly. “At least hand me the papers before you bash your head to a bloody pulp.” Greg’s grumbling made him bite back a smile, and he snatched up the papers when they were handed out to him. Eyes quick as lightning, he scanned every article, every gallery opening.

At last, he settled on one in particular. A small gallery, barely recognized even in London. An opening for a new show, _Nightmares_ , all horror and macabre works. Sounded promising, for now.

“We’re going to that one,” Sherlock commanded like a king speaking to his court. His reluctant court only responded with a quiet sigh.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

John sat back and rubbed his aching eyes, smearing even more paint across his face. Finished. He looked at the painting with a critical eye, smiled when he deemed it worthy. Mike was right, this was his best one. He felt the inexplicable urge to not part with it, which was strange because normally he couldn’t wait to get rid of his work. But this one…

He sat there and stared at it. At nothing. The mid afternoon light filtered in through the sheer curtains. The sound of the refrigerator buzzed in the otherwise silent room.

How many days had he sat there painting? By the state of his shoulder and bum, it must have been at least three. Probably more.

 

A shower and a quick meal later, he was heading to his sister’s.

 

Harry looked in an even worse state than him as she opened the door to her flat. “Johnny,” she cried out, wrapping him in a bear hug and trying to squeeze the life out of him. She was. Squeezing the life out of him, that is. She didn’t mean to, he knew she didn’t, but it happened anyway.

He tried to suppress his anger when he saw an empty bottle of vodka on the kitchen table. God, did he try. She was supposed to be clean. She was supposed to be finding a job. She was supposed to be trying to pay off her debt.

She had promised.

 

He slammed the door shut while she was still screaming at him.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

Sherlock strut his way into the gallery, Greg in tow. The older man rushed off to get two glasses of wine while Sherlock honed in on a painting towards the front and assessed it within an inch of its life.

Greg only just managed to hand him his drink before the deductions started. God, he hated the deductions.

“Cheap acrylic paints, hardly better than Crayola. Spent six hours on it and deemed it worthy of hanging in a gallery. Thinks that because she has a, frankly rather childish, reoccurring nightmare once in a blue moon that suddenly she’s an expert on them. Honestly, _clowns_ , Lestrade. _Clowns!_ Look at that appalling lighting, that terrible perspective! And that hideous shade of red she’s using for the blood! That’s not even close, has she never seen it before? This is utter rubbish and it should be burned immediately. In fact, burn all of her work.”

The shattering of glass beside them made them both turn to find the artist standing there, mouth agape, face twisted in anger and shock as her drink lay broken on the floor. The woman’s face went red as a stoplight, and she managed to sputter, “W-who the hell do you think you are?”

Sherlock waited a second and a half before responding, “Sherlock Holmes, world’s most esteemed art critic, perhaps you’ve heard of me. _You_ , on the other hand, have no business calling yourself an artist.” He turned and walked away as he heard the horrified gasps of other attendants, the rage-filled growl of the artist, and Lestrade’s beginning attempts at an apology. He continued on through the space, nose up and eyes sharp.

Dull.

Pathetic.

Childish.

How could he even begin to describe that one? ‘Trash’ might be good starting point.

Every last piece so horribly, catastrophically awful that he wanted nothing more than to set the entire building ablaze. At least then it would give everyone something genuinely interesting to look at.

He was just about to fall to the floor and sob over the state of humanity when he spotted a piece at the very back, tucked away where only a brave few could step closer and see. It sat alone on the otherwise empty wall, a single light illuminating it.

He was brave and took a step closer. Then another. Then another. Then yet another until he was nearly pressed up against it.

 

An ocean of sand. A single body, a soldier, clad in his uniform and his own blood, lying prone in the desert. His legs were missing, blown off, the rest of him a mangled mass of bones and rotting flesh. Every last flake of drying skin, every matted strand of hair, every last fiber of exposed muscle captured in all of their glory. A lifelike Griffon vulture sitting atop his hip, feasting on what was left of him. His only friend, even in death.

 

It was bloody. It was gruesome. It was horrifying. It was the beauty of Classicism meets the raw emotion of Expressionism, with textbook perfect anatomy and such an excruciating attention to detail that it bordered on the obsessive. It was dreams, reality, nightmares, desperation and sleepless nights. It was helplessness, loneliness, holding on out of sheer stubbornness. It was perfection.

He wanted to touch it. He wanted to caress it. He wanted to make love to it. Alright, maybe not that far... Alright, maybe a little that far. Either way, he saw the heavens open and shine down on the canvas, heard the angel choir sing.

 

This was the artist he had been searching for his whole life.

 

Greg sidled up behind him and watched as he stayed still as a statue. Oh god, this one must be bad if Sherlock couldn’t even speak. He looked at it objectively, found himself both frightened and in awe. It was spectacular, if he said so himself, and he knew next to nothing about art. So why was Sherlock just… standing there… staring…

He sipped his drink and looked around to see if the artist was anywhere nearby, lest Sherlock felt like throwing a truly terrifying tantrum. Two minutes became five, five became ten, and Greg started to worry when Sherlock suddenly heaved a great breath and pointed a long, bony finger at him.

“Get me the artist and the curator of the exhibit this instant.”

Greg blinked, looked around, then looked back at him. “Sorry, wha-”

“Now,” the critic roared, turning a manic look on him that sent the assistant running off with his tail between his legs.

 

Perfect. Beautiful. Exquisite. Extraordinary. Sublime. Perfect, perfect, perfect – Sherlock was torn from his nirvana when Greg returned with the curator and a rather large and very dismissible man. Not the artist. Manager. No, that wouldn’t do. “I said the _artist_ , not his manager,” he spat, frowning even more when the man looked apologetic.

“Uh, hi… Mike Stamford,” the man said, sticking out his thick hand for a shake.

Sherlock didn’t even look down at it, he merely put his hands together beneath his chin and bit out, “I will not speak through someone else to the artist, I will speak with him directly. Why is he not here tonight?”

Mike brought his hand up and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, um… you see, he’s, uh… He’s not very fond of social events. So… sorry, but you’ll have to talk through me.”

 “Then we will arrange a meeting so we can speak face to face.”

Mike rubbed the back of his neck more. “Um, when I say he’s not fond of social events, I mean… he’s… not fond of being social. At all. He won’t let anyone speak with him. He doesn’t even own a phone!” He laughed at his pathetic joke, clearing his throat when everyone just stared at him. “Uh, he… I can’t get him to leave his flat. Sorry, I could… give him a message?”

The critic’s nostrils flared as he took a deep, steadying breath. A recluse, how fun. And yet so infuriating. “Very well then. How much is this piece selling for?”

The man looked momentarily stunned before he stuttered, “F-fifteen hundred pounds.”

Sherlock’s blood turned to ice, and he lowered his hands and shouted, “That’s it? Fifteen hundred for this _masterpiece_? How dare you! How dare all of you! This is an outrage! A disgrace to his work! To his genius! The rest of this _shit_ here can be tossed in the rubbish, but he deserves to sit alongside the masters of history! To be held at the very peak of artists from this century! I wouldn’t even pay fifteen hundred for the rest of the work in this show combined! What were you thinking, letting him only sell it for _fifteen hundred pounds?_ ”

His dramatics had drawn quite a crowd, and everyone in the gallery stood around and watched the performance. Camera phones flashed as they all watched the god of the art world do the unimaginable: pay the highest respects he was ever capable of to a lowly, unknown painter. Greg looked around and started to sweat when he caught a few members of the press. Must’ve caught wind of Sherlock’s attendance when he tore that other painter a new one.

“I-I’m sorry… I… I keep trying to get him to raise the prices of his stuff, but he… he won’t listen. Humble as a nun and stubborn as a mule he is,” Mike muttered, pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf.

Sherlock’s glare was deadly. A _self-conscious_ recluse, even better. No matter, he’d snatch him up before anyone else could get their grubby little paws on him. “What is his name?”

“Uh, er – John. John Watson.”

 _John_. Such an ordinary name for such an extraordinary man. He let the name roll about in his head. Filed it away in his mind art palace, created a throne room for it.

Everyone held their breath…

“Listen to me very carefully, because I will not repeat myself,” the critic began. He barely waited for Stamford to nod before he continued, “You will tell Mr. Watson that I am buying his piece tonight for _one hundred and fifty thousand_ _pounds_ , not a quid less.” He paused when Mike wobbled in place and looked like he was about to faint, then hurried on, “You will gather _all_ of his work, every last piece, and bring it to my gallery tomorrow at noon sharp. You will also bring _him_ so that I may speak with him. Then, I will purchase all of his pieces for one hundred times the measly amount he is currently selling them for. Understood?”

Mike could only nod furiously and make a few unintelligible sounds.

Even Greg was in complete shock. He had only witnessed Sherlock endorse two artists in his whole career. Two, and never before had he ever so grossly overpaid for any of their works. It took him a moment before he could conjure a complete thought. “Sherlock,” he said carefully, “You have a meeting tomorrow for the article…”

“Cancel it, this is far more important.”

The uproar from the crowd was deafening.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

“No!”

“John –”

“No! Absolutely not! What the _hell_ were you thinking, Mike?”

He had never seen John this angry before, didn’t even think he was capable of it. Yet there he was, trembling with fury. “I don’t get why you aren’t over the moon about this! _Sherlock Holmes_ wants to buy all of your art!”

“It’s not _art_ ,” John roared, looking absolutely murderous as he rounded on his friend, “They’re bloody _therapy paintings_ that no one would have seen if _you_ hadn’t convinced me to show them! This is all _your_ fault!”

Mike held his hands up in defense. Placating, careful. He let John breathe before he answered. “This isn’t about that, I know it isn’t. What’s wrong? Why is this such a big deal?”

He watched as John deflated, rubbed his temple, then turned his back on him and limped over to the window.

Silence.

The manager sighed and prepared to phone an apology to Mr. Holmes. He stopped when John finally mumbled, “It’s _Sherlock Holmes_. He’s the damn… _Messiah_ of the art world, the very ground he walks on is holy. But he… he wants _my_ work? Do you know what that means, Mike? It means that every bloody, buggering arsehole of a critic and journalist and gallery owner will be banging down my door trying to get a picture or a word out of me. That’s not what I wanted, I just… I just wanted to sell a few paintings and pay off Harry’s debt. Maybe afford something better than this shithole flat while I was at it… But now, if I sell my paintings to him, I’ll never escape. But if I say no, I still won’t escape, ‘cause everyone else will want to outbuy him to get to me…”

John looked so small in that moment, leaning against his cane, staring out the window as the streetlights created an orange halo around him.

Mike shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor, letting the silence stretch out for a moment. “Look, when I first found your paintings, I… I promised you one thing. I promised not to let anyone get to you, yeah? I said you’d paint and I’d take care of all the rest. I _promised_. And I intend to keep that promise.” He smiled when John looked over his shoulder at him. “I’ll bring your work to Holmes tomorrow, and I’ll tell him that he damn well better deal with not seeing you. If he still wants to buy the paintings, then fine, he’ll deal with it like a big boy. If not, other collectors will come ‘round and I’ll deal with them too.”

The artist turned and looked at his friend sadly. They stared at each other for a long time, their gaze only broken when John looked at his feet. A moment later, he looked up and huffed, “So… I’m a _master of history_ now?” He grinned when Mike laughed.

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

Sherlock was nearly vibrating out of his skin. It was now five past noon. He had said noon sharp and that useless manager had managed to bugger it up.

The immaculate gallery was almost completely empty, cleared of the five paintings that had been housed there to make way for a master’s work. The only piece that remained was the one he had purchased the night before, carefully laying on one of the tables at the back. The doors were thrown open, workers prepared to set up the new show immediately. All that was missing were the paintings.

He clapped his hands together when Stamford jogged in. “I said noon sharp,” he yelled, startling the poor man. Lestrade rolled his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

“S-sorry Mr. Holmes. Traffic,” was the manager’s pathetic excuse.

Sherlock waved it off and spat, “Quickly, get the paintings! Bring them all in!” He crossed his arms and vibrated some more as all of the employees rushed out the door to the waiting van. One by one they came in, holding a painting as if it were made of glass. They damn well better be careful or they’d never work in the art world again. He had told them as much that morning, and he relished the nervous looks on their faces as they gently, ever so gently, set each painting down on a table.

Once all twelve lined up in a row, he ignored everyone in the room. Lestrade, Stamford, his lackeys. All that mattered were the paintings.

Inch by inch, he made his way to every one. All them breathtaking in their special, gruesome way. Different scenes, but all evoking the same desperation, anger, pain. Perfect. He was there for hours, didn’t even notice when everyone began to sit and wait. And wait. And wait.

 

It wasn’t until dinnertime when the critic took a deep breath and turned to Mike. “Where is he? And where is the last painting?”

Mike straightened before pushing his glasses up and asking, “Sorry? Last painting?”

Sherlock pointed at the painting in front of him. “Every painting has been made one month apart. Nearly clockwork. This is the most recent in this group, but it was made a month ago, ergo, there is a newer one that is not present. Where is it, and more importantly, where is Mr. Watson?”

Again with that damn apologetic look. “I… Well, you see… he um. He refused to come…”

Sherlock rounded on him, strode up until he was staring the shorter man down and growled, “I gave you specific instructions. I told you to bring me _every_ piece and to bring _him_ , yet you did neither.”

If a man of his size could shrink in on himself, Mike did so in that moment. “Yeah, but… I… I promised him I wouldn’t… you know, let anyone get to him. I _promised_. He almost didn’t let me bring _any_ of these, I only managed to convince him by letting him not come. And the last piece… it’s, um, it’s his favorite. He doesn’t want to give it up, so he wouldn’t let me bring it…”

Sherlock stared him down a moment longer, then snarled and began to pace. “No, no, no! This can’t happen! I have to have _all_ of them!”

Mike shot a terrified look over at Greg, who merely shrugged in response. “Uh, why all of them?”

The critic stopped and turned to face the idiot. “Because _I_ found him and I won’t let _anyone_ else have him.”

Silence fell as everyone stared at the madman.

He ignored every one of their looks.

Mike gaped and then looked down at his feet. Shuffled in place. Remained completely and utterly useless.

“Tell Mr. Watson that I am offering him a once in a lifetime opportunity.” Mike looked up and Sherlock continued, “I am offering to buy all of his pieces for one hundred times the price he has listed them for, including all of the ones he makes in the future. Tell him that I wish to display all of his works here in my gallery – which is the most celebrated private gallery in the world, mind you – and all I ask is to meet him face to face and own _all_ of his works.” He felt like screaming when Stamford only blinked owlishly. “And tell him that I will purchase the piece that he is _hoarding_ all for himself for no less than _one million pounds_.”

The manager clutched his chest and looked a bit peaky. “I-I… but–”

“Don’t speak! Just do it,” he barked. “Tell him that I will do this only, and only, if he agrees to attend the opening night for this show, which will be taking place in two days, so he better decide quickly.” He could practically hear the mental groans from his workers. That meant they would have to pull two back-to-back all-nighters, and Holmes would have their heads if anything wasn’t perfect.

“I… Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

 

 

~ - - - - ~

 

 

The chair cracked and splintered as it slammed against the wall. Mike jumped and held his hands up, ready for fight or flight in an instant. Not that he could win in a fight against John.

The weathered, broken ex-soldier sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. Hunched over, smaller than ever before. Mike could _feel_ the pain, the doubt, the anger, the shame radiating off of him in waves.

“Look, John–”

The artist merely shook his head.  
“Just listen to me. You… you don’t have to do this. But think about. All you have to do is give him that last piece, show up to a gallery for an hour tops, and then you’re scott-free. He wants to spend _millions_ on your paintings! You can pay off Harry’s debt and get outta here in the same day! You could… you could get yourself a nice flat! Or move out to the country if you wanted! Nobody would ever bother you. You could live in luxury for the rest of you life and just sell each new painting to him. That’s it! That’s the dream life, isn’t it?” He stood there. Watching, waiting. Pleading. He’d get on his knees and beg if he had to.

Slow as a snail emerging from its shell, John uncurled and scratched the stubble on his chin. He looked blankly at the wall in front of him, then turned his head and looked blankly out the window.

In a voice so tiny it broke Mike’s heart in two, the artist whispered, “I just want everyone to leave me alone…”

“I know, mate. And they will, all you gotta do is this one last thing…”

The minutes ticked by as John just kept sitting there, not even looking over at him.

“Fine… I’ll do it.”

 

           

~ - - - - ~

 

 

Despite the short notice, everybody who was anybody was at the show. They all flounced about in their best dress, sipped on hideously overpriced wine, smiled their fakest smiles and laughed their most obnoxious laughs.

It was disgusting.

Sherlock watched all of them with a sneer. They were all so _fake_. Not like his artist. His genius. His masterpiece. John.

Where was he? Stamford said he would be here!

He ruffled his hair in agitation and began to pace, making Greg look worried.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be here,” the man attempted. He shook his head at yet another aristocrat who attempted to shuffle forward to speak with the almighty Holmes.

           

An hour passed and Sherlock was nearly tearing at his own flesh.

“Sherlock, for God’s sake, drink some wine and _relax_ ,” Greg said, looking like he was about to force the madman into a straightjacket.

“Relax? How can I _relax_? He said he would be here!”

“I know, but just… take it easy, will you? You’re scaring everyone,” the older man hissed, gazing at all of the wary attendees.

Sherlock turned to him and snarled, “I don’t care what they think! Now shut up and _go away_!”

Greg huffed and shook his head, then dutifully did so only to keep from incurring the man’s wrath.

 

There Sherlock stood, twitching and crawling out of his skin. Waiting.

Another hour passed and he wondered who he could get away with murdering in the room.

           

But then, he saw him.

 

A tiny man, easily hidden among the crowd. Gray-blond hair, thin lips, ocean blue eyes. Ex-soldier, that much was obvious by his paintings. Limping on his cane, small, callused hands gripping the aluminum rod tight. Clad in his best – no, only, hemmed more than once – suit. Hardly ever worn it, judging by how uncomfortable he looked in it. But oh, how he looked. The cut was immaculate, showing his strong shoulders and broad chest. Tie wrapped around that thick neck. He was trying to hide in the sea of people. If only he knew how brightly he shined.

Sherlock clenched his jaw, balled his hands into fists, began to sweat. John wasn’t supposed to be like this. So… perfect. He was supposed to be _interesting_ , but not…

This…

Is this?

Yes, this is what… love must feel like.

 

He was terrified.

 

 The critic watched as the artist, the masterpiece limped over to a quiet corner of the room, clutching his glass of wine. Saw as he looked about the place and seemed on the verge of an anxiety attack.

Oh God, he _was_ on the verge of an anxiety attack, wasn’t he? This was all his fault… He hadn’t meant for it to be like this. He had meant for John to bask in the limelight, to come out of his cave and celebrate his genius with the world. Not to cower in a corner and wish for it to all be over…

His heart ached and he took a fortifying breath before carefully approaching.

Army training had the artist looking over at him furtively as soon as he started walking across the room. Of course he would feel eyes on him. Of course, brilliant John.

 

The critic waited until he was in front of him before he asked quietly, “John Watson?”

John, beautiful, perfect John looked up at him. He eyed him for a moment, then smiled and answered, “Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back.

“I don’t know whether to kiss you or kill you,” John joked before taking a sip of his wine.

Sherlock’s heart stopped and his eyes grew wide. _Oh God, please let it be kiss…_ _No, wait! Stop that!_

“So… uh… this is, quite the party, yeah?” the artist looked up at him expectantly, clearly completely out of his element. Give him the battlefield any day, but keep him far away from get-togethers.

"It’s all for you,” Sherlock blurted. He blinked, frowned, demanded that his brain watch itself.

John looked up at him again. Stared at him, tried to figure out what was going on in his funny little head. When no explanation came forth, he looked down at his feet and hissed, “Alright, what’re you playing at? I don’t… why me, why my work?” He clenched his jaw and looked back up, leveled Sherlock with a cold gaze that sent shivers down his spine.

“You are the artist I have been waiting for since I first knew what art was.”

Only an unreadable expression on John’s face was the response, so he pushed on. “When I was seven, I became obsessed with art. I read, studied, memorized every single artist up to the twentieth century who had ever made it into a textbook. But the time I was fourteen, I had them all memorized by heart, filed away in my mind art palace. Only then did I pick up a paintbrush. I figured… that if I knew everything there was to know about art, surely I could create a masterpiece… I was so disappointed with my first painting that I drowned it in gasoline and watched it burn in my backyard.” That got a smile from John. “Ever since, I’ve struggled to create anything worthwhile.”

John looked taken aback, and he interrupted, “But… I’ve seen your work. It’s… it’s breathtaking!”

Sherlock shook his head violently. “No, they always fall flat! No matter what I paint, no matter how long I paint for! Hundreds of critics all say the same thing, that my work is too _sterile_ , that it lacks _emotion_. Normally I abhor sentiment, especially in art. Too often it’s romanticized, faked to try and make something meaningful. But _you_ … your work is all of the precision that I strive for in my work, with such raw _power_ that is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I can _feel_ everything you were feeling while you were painting. Nothing is faked… it’s… perfect.”

He watched as John’s expression smoothed out, as his mouth fell open just the slightest. He watched as the perfect man’s brow knit, as he blinked and looked away, then looked back, nearly on the verge of tears.

“Nobody was supposed to see these. They were just… my way of… coping. I never meant to… I never thought…”

Sentiment ripped through Sherlock’s chest. “I know… That’s why they’re so perfect. John, you have to understand… I have only ever approved of _two_ artists in my career. I have only purchased _five_ works. And yet you come along and I become so enraptured with your work that I buy every one of them. Surely that tells you something?”

John blinked some more and smiled, huffed cheekily, “That you’re a nutter?”

The critic couldn’t help but chuckle along. “Well… yes, maybe that a bit. But it should tell you that you… that your work, deserves this recognition. Deserves to be displayed here in my gallery for everyone to see and admire and talk about forever.”

The artist blinked some more, licked his lips, shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “But… they don’t…”

“They do. And if it takes me the rest of my life to prove that to you, then so be it.”

John startled, gazed up into Sherlock’s eyes and gave him a watery smile.

He heaved in a shaky breath.

In a voice full of awe, of admiration, of hope, he whispered, “Thank you.”


End file.
